


wide-eyed (and so damn caught in the middle)

by Ejunkiet



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Investigative Journalism, Slow Burn, UST, now that the dust has settled, post-punisher season one, tip lines are risky business
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 11:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: He pauses facing the door, back straight, a line of tension. “What happened last week, shouldn’t have happened. You and me, we’re going to fix that.”He crouches down and jerks open the zipper of the bag, revealing a flash of gunmetal silver. He meets her eyes then, and they’re burning.“We’re going to take these, yeah, and I’m going to show you how to use ‘em. All of ‘em.”





	wide-eyed (and so damn caught in the middle)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unclemoriarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unclemoriarty/gifts).



> This is a belated secret santa gift for Reyna ! I took the prompt #microthematchmaker and sort of ran away with it, and it turned into this. There will be another part to this, when I can find the time..!
> 
> The title comes from the song 'strong' by London Grammar.

It starts with a lead. The source is anonymous, a drop on her tip line barely credible enough for her to follow through, but it includes the name of one of the main players she’s investigating – a  _Gnucci_ \- and it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. Karen has been chasing this story for the better part of a year - a comprehensive examination of the crime gangs currently occupying the kitchen -  and the Gnuccis’s represent the final piece of the puzzle. This is exactly what she needs.

In the end, she decides it’s worth the risk.

It’s not like she’s defenceless: she’s carrying, has been since that night in the warehouse, and her bag is tucked securely against her side, a reassuring weight against the light fabric of her blouse. She carries it with her more often now, just in case.

The tip itself is light on the details, vague about everything except the name and an address – and as she walks through the sketchy part of town near the docks, she keeps her bag close, one hand dipped inside her bag towards the grip of her .380. These streets remind her of the Kitchen; of her old apartment with its patched up bullet holes in the walls, plaster dust in the carpet that she never could completely vacuum out.

When she finally makes it to the address from the tip-line, she’s standing in front of a series of converted warehouses, apartment numbers pinned crudely above a series of rickety metal stoops. She almost misses it - the numbers are crooked and bent, the cheap metal lettering twisted until they’re almost impossible to read - but by process of elimination, this must be it.

Readjusting her grip on her bag, she knocks on the door of number 33 and waits.

There’s a long moment of quiet before she hears movement on the other side of the door, heavy steps that hesitate at the threshold, before the locks click, bolts sliding back, and the door opens.

Her hand drops away from her bag, as the other rises to settle at the base of her throat.

“Frank.”

His hair is long again, and there is scruff on his face, but there is no mistaking him.

“Karen.” He looks as surprised to see her on his doorstep as she is to see him here, alive.

The words stick in her throat. She hasn’t seen him since – since that moment, in the elevator, and her eyes flick to his shoulder, glancing over the broad line of his shoulders, searching for signs of the injury out of habit. It’s been weeks, though, and the thin material of his Henley hides any evidence of any further damage. The bruises on his face have almost faded, too.

“How’d you find me?” His voice is rough around the edges, his hair mussed, and she gets the impression that she’d caught him sleeping - even if it was only three o’clock in the afternoon.

“I didn’t. I was looking for Pete Castiglione.”

“Well, you found him.”

There’s a long moment where they just look at each other. She maps the familiar lines of his face, identifies new ones, and when he speaks again, she finds his eyes on her, watching her too. They’re dark, soft. “You, uh. Want to come in?”

“Yeah.”

–

The apartment is modest, barely twenty square metres of floor space in total with a kitchenette in the corner and a small ensuite hosting just the basic amenities, from what she can see through the door; shower and bath. She shrugs out of her coat and scarf, handing them to Frank when he reaches for them.

There’s not much here in terms of furniture; there isn’t the room for it, but where the square footage is lacking, the ceilings more than make up for it. High, narrow windows line the outward facing walls, letting in the afternoon light and making the apartment feel open and airy. Books litter every available surface, and a queen bed with rumpled sheets dominates the main room. It’s comfortable, and not what she would have expected from Frank.

Frank navigates the narrow floorspace with practised ease, making his way to the small fridge set into the corner, flipping open the narrow door before he pauses, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

“Beer?”

“Yeah, if you haven’t got anything stronger.”

He laughs at that, rapping his knuckles against the plastic frame of the fridge. “Just beer, I’m afraid.”

She has to bite down on her lip to swallow a smile. “We’ll make do.”

Grabbing two bottles, he makes his way back across the cramped confines of the apartment and passes it to her. She’s struck by a faint sense of deja vu-  from the last time she shared a drink with him, the same fizzle of tension in the air.

He’s looking at her, his gaze keen and steady, when he asks, “who gave you my name?”

Leaning back against the counter, she considers him over the top of her drink.

“It was a tip-off. Anonymous. They gave me the name of a story I’m chasing, Gnucci.” Pausing, she taps a finger against her bottle, putting the pieces together. “Sound like someone you know?”

“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand across his face, through his hair. “Yeah, sounds like someone I know.”

“Micro.” It’s not a major leap, and she doesn’t need Franks gruff nod to confirm it. “You’re still in contact with him?

He shrugs. “Sorta.” He glances at her and frowns, shaking his head, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “It’s not like that. He’s got kids, you know. He just, uh. Likes to meddle.”

Meddle? Frank doesn’t meet her gaze, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked sheepish. “Do I want to know?”

He lets out a laugh. “Prob’ly not.”

The conversation flows easier, after that. It’s still not easy - there are too many things that go unsaid, like the conversation at the river, and those moments in the elevator when she’d looked at Frank and realised that there was more to this, this unspoken thing between them.

But it’s good to see him, and as the afternoon goes on, and one drink turns into two, the tension drops away, until it’s just them, talking. It’s easy and comfortable, and she realises she’d missed this.

–

The next tip-off she follows through is a set up.

She’d half been expecting something like this, the further she got in her investigation into the Gnucci family.

It’s Frank that comes for her, finds her spruced up like a freaking turkey in a backroom of an abandoned sweatshop, where the air stinks of gunpowder and the harsh copper of blood. A hand at the back of her neck, carefully threaded through her hair, he gets her out of there, through the streets of downtown and back to her apartment.

He’s quiet, but there’s a simmering layer of anger lying just beneath the surface, so potent she can almost taste it. His hands are gentle, though, when he sets her down on her cramped little sofa, although she still can’t mask her wince when the tender place at the back of her head meets the pillow.

He doesn’t go far, taking a knee at her side, hovering close. “You okay?”

“I think so.” She’s alive, at least. She can worry about everything else later. “How’d you find me?”

“Our mutual friend keeps tabs.” He gestures towards the window and the street outside before glancing away, jaw tightening. “Lucky he caught it.”

Her wrist is twisted, aching from where her arms had been tied behind her back, her pistol removed from her purse before she even had the chance to fire it. He’s gentle as he handles her, getting her to flex the joint, checking the mobility before getting ice for the swelling.

“It should be fine,” he assures her as he positions the terrycloth, shows her how to hold it. “Still, you should get it checked. In the morning.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, across his face, leaving streaks of rusted red -  his knuckles are cracked and bleeding, she hadn’t noticed before now. He’s shaking, too - a mild tremor, but enough that it’s noticeable. She reaches out to touch his arm, and he pulls away, getting to his feet.

Frank still won’t meet her eyes, and suddenly, she can’t take it anymore. “ _Frank_.”

He pauses, facing away from her.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He leaves.

–

Frank turns up on her doorstep less than a week after the incident with eyes like fire.

He’s carrying a duffle bag, a dark woollen cap pulled low over his ears, and she can feel the cold he brings with him, the brush of winter air against her bare feet. He glances her up and down as he steps into her apartment, and she pulls the blanket around her shoulders in tighter, conscious of the fact that she’s dressed for bed in only an oversized shirt and sleeping shorts.

“Frank.” There’s a muted clang as he drops the bag to the floor, and she realises what he’s carrying. “Frank, what is-”

“You should get dressed.”

Her grip around the blanket loosens, and she sets her feet a shoulder length apart, crossing her arms and ignoring the jacket. “I’m not just going to drop everything when you turn up on my doorstep, Frank.”

She’s exhausted, a sort of bone-deep weariness that leeches the heat from the room and leaves little space for anything else.

He pauses facing the door, back straight, a line of tension. “What happened last week, shouldn’t have happened. You and me, we’re going to fix that.”

He crouches down and jerks open the zipper of the bag, revealing a flash of gunmetal silver. He meets her eyes then, and they’re burning.

“We’re going to take these, yeah, and I’m going to show you how to use ‘em. All of ‘em.”

“I know how to fire a gun, Frank.” She considers asking him to leave, just pick up his guns and go - but does she really want that? She doesn’t, she decides as he briefly checks the weapons, before tugging the zipper on the bag shut.

He doesn’t look up when he asks, “when was the last time you discharged a weapon?”

She doesn’t flinch at his words, but it’s a close one, and from the tense way Frank holds himself, doesn’t meet her gaze, she can tell he knows that he’s close to crossing a line. “You know when.”

“You need regular practice. Come on, I know a place.”

She hesitates. His eyes are on her, keen and dark, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, quieter. “Please, Karen.”

She changes into an outfit more suitable for early January and follows Frank into the night.

–

He takes her to an abandoned warehouse just a few blocks away from his hideout at the docks, and if it brings back memories that she’s spent the last few years trying to forget, she does her best not to show it. She’s still not okay with this - with  _any_ of this - and when they enter the makeshift shooting range, a misshapen line-up of mismatched bottles and paint cans, Karen almost turns around and leaves.

“This is ridiculous, Frank.”

“Humour me. Please.”

_Please._

(She’s not doing this because he said please, she’s  _not_.)

It’s easy going, at first. Karen isn’t new to this; she’d grown up in the rural beauty of Vermont, and she’d been taught how to shoot by her father, hidden away in their cabin in the woods near Quechee Gorge during the long, slow summers of her childhood. She's got an eye for it, always had, and so it doesn’t take long for her to clear the first set of targets, shards of glass ricocheting across the empty lot. 

He’s watching her as she lowers the gun, dark eyes steady on hers, something unreadable in his expression. She raises a brow at him. “Surprised?”

He shakes his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “Nah. Figured you’d be good at this.”

He hands her another gun.

“Now try this."

–

Later, they're camped out on the floor of her apartment on the outskirts of the city, and his hand is curled around her ankle, a six pack of beer on the floor between them as he talks about his time in boot camp and the shit they used to get up to - and she realises that this is something she could get used to.

\--

It’s a short time after that - somewhere around the vicinity of four am - that she comes to the realisation that she’s falling for Frank Castle.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at ejunkiet.tumblr.com!


End file.
